


Insieme

by enigmaticdr



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 21:33:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9403739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticdr/pseuds/enigmaticdr
Summary: Pre-Series. Early Bedelia/Hannibal mind games. To quote Gillian: "...Bedelia is the smartest person in the room."





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry that I'm late posting this here and that, because of that, you might have already read this on Tumblr.   
> Either way, happy weekend, everyone!

It is summer, and the season has melted into existence with an unusual vengeance, delivering a heat so oppressive and heavy that the air itself feels too thick to breathe comfortably. It is sweltering outside, and the plum coloured curtains covering the large floor-to-ceiling windows of her bedroom are drawn firmly closed, in an attempt to shield the interior of the house from the sun’s blistering rays.

There is an empty bottle of wine downstairs on the kitchen counter, two glasses with twin burgundy stains resting beside it. The dinner plates are put away but there persists the sweet aroma of _tarte tatin_ lingering in the air. Upstairs, two crystal flutes half-filled with Champagne are forgotten on the bedside table.

The air conditioning unit hums constantly, and the cooler air it manages to produce is a blessed respite from the unyielding humidity. The breeze from the vent whispers across her back, drying the droplets of perspiration on her skin as she sits up on her knees, straddling his hips.

Bedelia pushes her breasts forward into his palms, tossing her head back in unchecked delight, letting the pleasure wash through her veins. It makes her grit her teeth and she tightens her muscles around him as the chill ripples through her body. When he moans and grips her hips to thrust deeper into her - deeper still - she feels it all the way to the base of her skull. She threads her fingers through his sparse chest hair and moves restlessly above him, over and over, breathing harshly.

He pushes up on his elbow and wraps his hand in her hair, pulling her face close to his so he can kiss her. She chastises him, pushing her tongue aggressively into his mouth before breaking the kiss, rising up and arching her back towards him. She sighs as his mouth closes hotly over her breast, tangles her fingers in his hair to hold him there.  He urges her to move faster, harder, and she grips his hands, pinning them to the pillow with her weight, rocking over him until the fire flares and consumes them both. She cries out with the heat of it.

Drained, she falls forward and collapses atop his chest, breathing hard. His arms weave around her, stroke smoothly up and across her back to hold her close. Immediately she is too hot, and she shrugs out of his embrace, separating her sticky skin from his. She rolls over onto her back on the wrinkled sheet beside him. He rubs his hands over his face, wiping away the sweat and pushing back his hair, chest moving rhythmically up and down until his breathing returns to normal.

“You are exquisite,” he tells her, accent thicker than usual.

She hums in the back of her throat, too exhausted to open her eyes, and, in the darkness of her bedroom, the exhaustion and lethargy claims them both.

***

When she wakes she finds they have slept straight through until morning. She is on her stomach, tangled in the sheets. He is pressed against her. The heavy weight of his arm is draped across her hips and his leg is between hers, her calf curled over his knee. She blinks, getting her bearings.

There is some soreness, but the main thing of which she is aware is the sudden consuming feeling of regret and fear and the overwhelming guilt twisting in the pit of her stomach. Their actions were entirely inappropriate, she knows, unprofessional and immoral, and a complete violation of their doctor-patient relationship. She berates herself, not so much for what happened, but for not being more cautious of his persuasion in the first place. She gets up on unsteady legs and, despite the sweltering heat, wraps a silk robe around herself.

Without sparing a glance at the man behind her, Bedelia descends to the kitchen and sits at the island with a glass of ice water.

She is granted precisely thirty minutes of silent reflection before he joins her in the large, modern kitchen.

“This will never happen again, Hannibal,” she tells him, eyeing him with a seriousness the likes of which he has never seen grace her features. She gets up to look out the large window above the sink, her back to him. “Do you understand?”

He stares at her, observes the way her hand is clenched around the edge of the marble counter, fingertips white with the force of her grip. “We engaged in this together. Willingly,” he offers. “You are not solely responsible.”

Her shoulders bristle. Not for the first time, he toys with her, dances on the fine edge of persuasion and coercion, blurring the line.

“We are both professionals,” he continues. “Colleagues.”

“Do you understand me?” she reiterates, tone turning sharp.

There is silence. Finally, he nods, even though she cannot see. “Of course, Doctor.”

She nods curtly. “Thank you for dinner. However I think it is best we take a break from our sessions,” she says, back still ramrod straight, hand still clutching the countertop. “I will see you in six months’ time. Should you require a referral in the meantime, please contact my secretary.”

When she walks down to hall to the ensuite bathroom and closes the door behind herself, there is a definite air of finality to it.

He goes upstairs and retrieves his clothes from the bedroom floor, dresses, and then politely sees himself out. 

***

Two weeks later, Bedelia receives a thick yellow envelope in the mail. It is a professional request for her to take over Neal Frank’s treatment, Hannibal’s signature written in a black flourish of ink on the bottom line of the document.

She has already deduced, from their previous sessions, that Hannibal has a deep incapability of respecting boundaries. Though he has not returned to her house since she sent him away, she figured it was just a matter of time before he attempted communication or some form, before he began to test that boundary, to push her will. 

It is not until she stands at her bathroom sink three months later, nauseous and trembling with fear – trembling with _power_ – with him hovering on her shoulder in the lamplight like the devil he is, that she realizes just how completely he had intended to challenge her authority. How thoroughly he had planned to infringe. Gently, he helps to wash her skin clean of Neal Frank’s blood. She watches the red water swirl down the drain.

“I can help you,” he says, meeting her gaze in the mirror, carefully wiping the damp washcloth down her neck. He gently pushes her hair out the way. “If you ask me to.”

Bedelia watches him in the mirror, watches as he dotes on her. He is proud, she realizes – though whether he is proud of her or more proud of himself, she cannot tell for certain. He bends closer to her, to catch the combined scent of her perfume and the smear of blood on her neck.

Through the shock, Bedelia vaguely remembers something about keeping friends close, and enemies closer. She closes her eyes and sees her retribution. Silently, she resolves herself to his disturbing game of cat and mouse. There is so much she knows about him, so much that she has observed and secretly locked in her brain. She also remembers something about knowledge being power. 

She resolves herself to playing.  

She resolves herself to winning.

“Will you help me?” she murmurs.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :)


End file.
